


On Adaptation

by TheCrazyGeek



Series: On a f*cking wing and a f*cking prayer [6]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, British Politics, F/M, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Oral Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The concrete jungle of politics is in some respects not so different from the conventional forested one: the chief guiding principle is survival of the fittest, and those creatures that can successfully adapt to changes within the environment thrive, while those that cannot are left behind.<br/>Here we may observe two predators of the concrete jungle of Whitehall, perfectly adapted to today's political climate: Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications for the Government of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and Jamie MacDonald, his senior press officer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Adaptation

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written by myself and the marvellous She-Who-Edits-Like-The-Wind TheMasterPlanner

***

The concrete jungle of politics is in some respects not so different from the conventional forested one: the chief guiding principle is survival of the fittest, and those creatures that can successfully adapt to changes within the environment thrive, while those that cannot are left behind.

Here we may observe two predators of the concrete jungle of Whitehall, perfectly adapted to today's political climate: Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications for the Government of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and Jamie MacDonald, his senior press officer.

***

"Nicholson? He’s got fucking wings?"

Malcolm nodded, not taking his eyes off his smartphone. Julius Nicholson’s wings were pitiful, stunted little white things, no larger than a chicken’s, with unimpressive white plumage that reminded Malcolm of that of a fucking goose. They were almost as fucking ridiculous as the man himself, but the fact remained that he was descended from a very old Winged family and had a lot of pull among those circles--pull Malcolm occasionally needed to take advantage of.

"Why the fuck does he always look like he wants tae kill ye and fucking tap-dance on yer grave?"

***

Joinings were commonly done when a Winged female entered her eighteenth year, and a Winged couple were expected to be Mated for life. For the Aristocrats, the bluebloods of winged society, it was done at six, as the politics alone in such decisions could take decades to settle. The eldest daughter of the respected Cassidy Flock had just celebrated her sixth birthday, and her family sent out the word: _Come and be judged._

And every Winged noble flock responded on the chosen day: the Witheralls, the Higgs, the Smythes, the Beauforts, the famed Windsors, even the reclusive Nicholsons sent a Candidate. They all arrived in a convoy of Aston Martins and Rolls-Royces and politely introduced themselves to Sam's parents and to the girl herself – standing there in her best Sunday dress and looking rather bemused at all the attention.

In theory, Joinings and Candidacy were open to all, but in practice, no proper Winged Englishman would ever dream of intruding upon such a blue-blood event without an invitation. On that summer's day however, a Scotsman did.

Arriving from the sky and not the road and backwinging to aim right in front of the gathered assembly, Malcolm Tucker descended like a grey bullet streaking toward the ground, silver lightning unleashed. It was a graceful, wildly showy landing, a hard, fast drive into the ground that left him on one knee, his wings spread in blatant display as the nobles watched in astonishment. He was 36, a rising star in government and common as muck--born to working-class Glasgow Wingless, in fact, as they found out later--but folded his wings back and away, shrugged on a suit, and presented himself as a Candidate, just like any other of the Winged present. He'd introduced himself to Sam's parents, made the wee lass laugh with his "funny voice," and then flashed a purely predatory look at all the others.

_Come on then_ , his whole posture screamed, _let's see what you cunts can do!_

The Cassidy Flock was so convinced that the Scot would rise very far in politics, and so impressed by his sheer chutzpah, that they offered to Join him to Sam on the spot. For at least a year the controversial Joining was the subject of heated gossip at every gathering of Winged afterward.

Malcolm had seen it as a door into the privileges and secret deals of the blue-bloods; he quickly formed deals and alliances and all the while rose ever higher in Number 10. He also made a lot of enemies; blue-blood traditionalists did not generally believe in working class muck like him intruding on their lives, and he even received a couple of death threats. Nothing ever came of them of course -- all bark and nae fucking bite -- and for all his "Malchiavellian" ruthlessness, he made an effort to stay away from the Cassidys. They were not to be hauled into his special brand of cutthroat policy; Sam had been only a small wee thing when he first met her, but after watching him glide and swoop mere inches away from her head, she'd clapped and laughed. He knew then that he would rip the fucking arteries out of anyone who hurt her.

Most rejected Candidates were, of course, far too well-bred to openly show disappointment or speak ill of a Flock's decision. It was just politics, after all, and to betray one's feelings was to show weakness. The Winged were predators; any weakness would be swiftly exploited. A Winged gentleman, especially one in the viper pit that was Winged nobility with all its intrigues, could not afford to appear weak.

And then there was Nicholson.

Malcolm laughed to himself in the privacy of his own office. Yet again the fucking prime candidate for the loony bin had come up with something truly fucking crap and got sworn at for his trouble by the ever-angry Director of Communications. The stupid baldy bawbag had even grabbed Malcolm by the tie and called him a bastard.

At which point Malcolm had just bared his teeth and snarled. "It's nae about that report, is it? It never fucking was. It was always about Sam Cassidy."

Nicholson's silence said it all, and Malcolm pounced. "It fucking _kills_ ye that Sam's no' yours doesn't it? That she's Joined to a fucking commoner, and that ye don't even have the wings to fly fer her!"

Nicholson had aimed a punch, but years of growing up coddled and cosseted in country estates hadn't taught him how to fight. Malcolm, though, had all the knowledge of the Glasgow tenements to draw upon, and swiftly ducked under his arm and kicked his feet out. "She _should_ have been mine!" Julius pouted (oh how cute) from his place on the carpet and mustered up all the indignant tones only an entitled blue-blood of the peerage could manage. "Our Flocks have been allies for centuries!"

"Aye well, you win some ye lose some." Malcolm shrugged. "Now fer fuck's sake, tidy up and fuck the fuck off."

***

“Malc? Ye free?” Jamie didn’t wait for an answer and just walked into Malcolm’s office anyway,  long secure in the knowledge that the only thing scarier than him was the man in that room.

Malcolm didn’t look up from the broadsheets scattered about his desk, each one covered with his tiny neat handwriting. “So,” he said, “I see they’ve let ye out of London Zoo for the day. Have fun visitin’ your family in the ape enclosure?”

“Yeah, an’ I saw yours in the fuckin’ reptile house. Those tiny wee snakes that could’nae scare a fucking toddler.” Jamie replied, but with a grin on his face. Verbal sparring with Malcolm was so much more fun than with any of those weak-limbed Poxbridge twats infesting these hallowed halls. Ollie Reeder would (an’ probably has) piss himself within twenty seconds of a proper swearin’ match.

Before the next round of the All-Caledonian Competitive Swearing Olympics could kick off, Malcolm sighed and rose up from the papers to glare at his right-hand man. “What the fuck do ye want MacDonald?” he muttered, running a hand over his mouth as he always did when especially annoyed. “Unless you’re bringin’ me coffee, or tea, or a fucking intravenous drip of fuckin’ coke, then I’m no’ interested.”

“Okay, fine, ye grumpy auld cunt. Guess ye don’t want tae hear about how I, the great undefeated Jamie MacDonald, personally stopped your fucking walking disaster Murray from fucking up today?”

“Fine, well done, applause, will give ye the hand of my firstborn daughter, whatever. Fuck off.” It would have been obvious to anyone else that when Malcolm Tucker is stressed, red-eyed from lack of sleep and being kept alive only by lethal levels of caffeine, _you fucking leave him alone._

Jamie, being Jamie, did _not_ have those instincts.

“Not sleepin’ well Malc? Doesn’t surprise me when your fuckin’ PA is so on Heat I can smell her from Parliament. Got your leg over yet or you just wankin’ pathetically over--” Jamie didn’t get to finish the sentence, as he was wrenched by the throat and shoved against a wall by an enraged Glaswegian. Jamie just laughed, as this was nothing new to him. “Or are ye leaving her open fer others since you’re so fucking past it now that ye probably come dust? Ye know, she’s always been nice tae me--"

“--It won’t be your feathers I pull off this time if ye make _one_ move on her!” Malcolm snarled. “It’ll be your entire fucking wings _and_ your fucking goolies and I’ll wrap them all up in a string of your guts and send that whole package over to the Tate Modern so rich fucks can look at them!”

"Talking of rich fucks, Nicholson's due at the office later today."

"Fuck me."

“Later darlin’.” Jamie swatted Malcolm’s hand away. “If ye’re lucky.”

Rolling his eyes, Malcolm stepped back from his rabid pet pitbull and straightened his collar from where he’d rumpled it. “Why does everything ye wear look like total shite?” he sighed. “I know what ye earn, at least get some fucking decent clothes instead of spendin’ it all on drugs an’ prossies. We're fucking professionals here, yes?”

Old and familiar insults were traded, their equivalent of a comfort blanket, something constant in this entropic world they inhabited. Jamie’s upbringing, Malcolm’s bony figure, Jamie’s habits, Malcolm’s sex life -- there was a rich and varied list to choose from. Added bonus that anyone listening in just thought they were about to kill each other and would usually beat a swift exit.

Sam broke up the insult-flinging by bringing in two cups of tea (Assam brewed strong for Malcolm; Tetleys with two sugars for Jamie) and reminding Malcolm of his calendar for this afternoon. When she left, Jamie threw a quizzical look at his elder. “She...does’nae smell that strong now. What the fuck?”

“Orange perfume, Jamie. Learned that trick off a Winged lass up in the Highlands. If ye don’t want to be chased over the heather by entire flocks of pantin’ gits, then ye learn to mask it.” It was pretty evident that was all he was going to get out of Malcolm on the matter; Jamie handed over the details of his morning’s work saving the arse of Glummy fuckin’ Mummy and wandered off to cause a few more highborn tossers tae shit their bloomers. He’d come back later for Baldy’s visit. Maybe Malcolm would let him throw food at the fuckwit’s big baby head again.

***

Julius Nicholson hadn't exposed his wings since childhood. His wings were ice white, the trademark coloration of the Nicholson Flock, but very small. It was expected that they would grow full with time, but they never developed. They remained tiny and useless, the wings of a child. He could not display them, and he most certainly could not fly with them.

When the Cassidys had sent out the word that, due to an unfortunate genetic flaw, Sam could never grow wings, Julius had felt the touch of fate. Another ground-bound Winged, like him. Surely Malcolm Tucker, that Scottish social climber, would turn away from her, none of the aristocracy would even blame him for doing so, and then Julius could meet Sam again and they could talk of their common flaw. The Flocks would see the potential and Sam would be his.

When Malcolm sent (in an email! the crass man didn't even use paper!) a message saying _"I don't fucking care if she was wings, batwings, flippers, whatever the fuck. I'm not turning away from something I fought long to get,"_ Julius, Lord of Arnage, broke his favourite whisky glass against a wall.

A few years later, Malcolm brought Sam in as his personal assistant, lavishing her with the kind of attention and care that nobody had ever seen from him. At the end of her first month, Julius had taken the trip over to Number 10 to meet her, despite avoiding Malcolm's office whenever possible.

_Stunning._ That was his first impression. The distinctive Cassidy jawline, coupled with fine facial features from her Smythe mother, had given her a beautifully calm and aristocratic look. Warm brown hair tumbled down her back from a simple ponytail, and she even walked with the grace of people who spend their lives in the air. He’d stammered (oh the manners) out a greeting and was pleased when she immediately knew who he was and extended her hand to him. He took it like a supplicant and pressed the briefest of kisses to her fingers.

That was the start of a surprising friendship. That Julius liked Sam was a given, but she genuinely liked spending time with him, catching up on the family gossip and hearing about her nephews and assorted cousins. He deliberately kept away from the topic of Malcolm and played the part of a friendly distant family member -- the Nicholsons and the Cassidys did have common blood, generations ago, as all the British noble Flocks were interrelated -- with aplomb. He never told her he'd been at her Choosing.

All the hidden hopes he’d had about her one day seeing how right they were for each other came shattering down when he caught the scent of her Heat. Malcolm wouldn't be able to resist it, precious few Winged could, and once he got her --

\-- Julius had come to a decision right there and then. Malcolm had to be taken down before he could formally claim Sam. The blue-bloods would take back their own.

***

Sex among the Winged was not solely for procreation, of course; as for so many other members of the animal kingdom, it was also a status display. In their still male-dominated (although female Winged were steadily gaining a voice in this) society, it was common for a lesser-ranked member of the flock to show respect and submission to their Alpha by providing them with sexual release. The Wingless, in imitation of their betters as always, had their own rituals of submission, such as the Imperial Chinese _koutou_.

Being blue-blood, Julius hadn't had to do this much. He'd mostly been on the receiving end of such attentions – servants at their ancestral estate, commoners vying for recognition, all willing and eager to please him.

And then Malcolm Tucker arrived. Malcolm Tucker, the fierce grey-eyed eagle who refused from the start to bow to anybody and had half the government at his feet within a decade of him setting foot in Whitehall. He'd never dropped to his knees and pleasured another, Julius was sure of that.

But, if Julius dethroned the Dark Lord of Westminster and sent him spinning back, wings clipped, into whatever black abyss of Hell or Scotland that spawned him, then before he left he could demand Malcolm show him due respect. His mind conjured up an image of the defeated Tucker on his knees between Julius' legs, sucking him off like a bloody pro, grey wings dragging the floor and grey head bobbing up and down --

\-- Julius swallowed the moan in his throat and hurriedly adjusted his trousers. Plenty of time to think about that later once he'd knocked that bloody oik clear off his perch.

***

At two-thirty in the afternoon, on the dot, Julius Nicholson, resident blue-skies thinker of blue-blood heritage, was already at the desk with a cup of Earl Grey, his biscuits, and his Jaffa cakes. "Ah, so what business brings the Glasgow Genghis Khan to me today?"

Malcolm Tucker decided to skip the pleasantries.

“WHAT HAVE YE DONE?!” roared Malcolm's voice, echoing off every flat surface in Number 10. “WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YE FUCKING DONE?!" Sam quietly got up from her desk and closed his office door, motioning away the others who had appointments with Malcolm that day. They didn't need encouragement – when an enraged tiger breaks free, it's best to remove yourself from the potential prey – and Sam was quickly left alone. She went off to make some tea.

Inside Malcolm's office, the enraged tiger himself was red-faced with fury. “You may think you have blood bluer than your fucking bollocks, but in this building YOU submit tae ME!”

“It's just a policy Malcolm, no need for your football stadium voices. Quite a brilliant one, I thought.” Julius sat in a chair opposite Malcolm's desk and smiled. “The PM certainly didn't voice any complaints.”

Veins throbbing along his neck and temples, Malcolm slammed a hand down onto his desk. “That's because YOU did'nae fucking TELL him about it, did ye? A couple of words in his ear durin' golf is NOT where or how ye discuss fucking policy!”

Julius sat back and tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his smug grin under the pretense of enjoying a biscuit. “I rather suggest that you write up some statement of support for it, Malcolm. It would not do to show the press any, ah, _division_ , in these difficult times, wouldn't you say?”

"Get. _Out._ " Malcolm's voice was barely above a whisper but Julius heard it and left, a smile still on his face. He'd done it. He'd taken down the feared Director of Communications. He'd taken down Sam's Chosen.

Life was finally looking good.

***

Malcolm paced round his office with gritted teeth and threw his handful of paperwork straight at the wall, following it by whatever else he could lay his hands on. How _dare_ that fucking egghead _cunt_ who was born with a silver spoon so far down his throat that it was sticking out of his arse make him look bad in front of the PM? How dare he think he could make Malcolm F Tucker, apex predator of Whitehall, destroyer of lesser men, back the fuck down? The satsumas joined the paperwork in bouncing off the wall and then the glass bowl they were in smashed against the floor. He didn’t care; he wanted to hear things being destroyed because that was _his_ fucking job. _He_ made people back down, he did not fucking back down to people with barely a fucking job description past _"turn up and try not to drool on shit."_

Eventually his destructive rage burned out and he collapsed in his chair. Fuck it. Yanking his monitor round, he started to type an email to Jamie.

Sam Cassidy had a system of working out when it was safe to enter the room after a Malcolm rage: Swearing at other people – four minutes; swearing into the air about everything – eight minutes; things being broken – ten minutes. This enabled her to bring him a coffee just as the worst of his temper had subsided and he’d started thinking how to sort things out. Any earlier and she risked being caught in the collateral damage.

This afternoon sounded like a fifteen minute job.

***

part two

***

Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications and Number 10's enforcer, may have been strong, with extraordinary wings, but Julius Nicholson, Lord of Arnage and resident "blue-skies" consultant, was from a noble Flock that could trace their roots back so many years, they probably kept heraldry and genealogy records while crawling out the fucking primordial ooze. Winged nobility expected -- and received -- both deference and obedience.

Nevertheless, when Jamie stepped into the office and asked Malcolm if he would buckle under and write the statement, the reply was: "Fuck him. I do nae take orders from a walking testicle with chicken's wings an' a family tree so fucking inbred it's just a fucking straight line."

"So what are we going to do, then?"

"Don't know about you, but I'm off to dry-shave my scrotum and nail it to a fucking flagpole. It won't be much fun, but better than watching Lord Baldemort make the policy announcement."

***

Malcolm rubbed his eyes, red from a whole night spent awake trading ideas (and insults) with Jamie. _It might work_ , he thought, _though it's a fuck of a gamble._

_But it's the only one I have._ Taking an unlabelled book from his coat pocket, he flipped through the pages of nameless numbers until he found the one he was after. A few minutes later, he'd dialled it into a phone that even Sam didn't know he had.

“Ahh dobroe utro Dimitri, yeah yeah, well your Gaelic fucking sucks too.”

***

Six in the morning, and Malcolm was at work despite having spent most of the previous twenty-four hours calling in favours from people both fair and utterly foul. Jamie would kill for some of the names and contacts in Malcolm's little black book, while Sam would worry about the kind of people Malcolm had dealt with. It was therefore far easier to not let them know.

He was not normally a man prone to nerves, but he found himself chewing on a knuckle while he waited for the morning papers and kept hammering the F5 key on his computer. If he'd done this right, then Lord Baldest Baldy of Baldytown would be fucking humiliated. If any of it had gone wrong...he knew for certain it would be _his_ face on the front covers. Politics and the press were unforgiving. The might of the media would come down upon him harder than a fucking choir boy in a porn shop.

In the end he hadn't had to wait for the papers. Malcolm's mobile rang with the distinctive ringtone he'd set for the Lord Arnage – "Creep" by Radiohead, he'd thought it quite fitting  – and he'd answered it to hear Julius' voice, terse and clipped.

“ _My office Malcolm, if you would be so kind.”_

Swinging his jacket over his shoulders, Malcolm strode out of the office and waved to Sam as he passed her in the corridor.

***

“You are a horrible, nasty, despicable _bastard_ , Malcolm.” Julius Nicholson had nearly leapt up and tried to strangle the whip-thin communications director when he entered his office. “It was _one_ policy, one simple little idea. It hardly justified you doing all... _this_ .” He waved at the piles of morning editions stacked near the ever-present tins of biscuits. Each paper had a slightly different take on the headline _"Was PM's ideas man involved in arms smuggling?"_

“Well ye _did_ walk into it, _your Lordship_.” Malcolm growled. “I don't like drafting a fucking apology unless it's someone else reading it out while they get fucked up the arse.”

“I dealt with Sergei _once_ , Malcolm. That no more makes me a criminal any more than having James MacDonald around has turned you into a feral dog. I could go to the press and tell them you've been tapping my phone lines--”

“No, Julius,” he replied, “you won't." Malcolm walked towards him and was gratified to see the baldy blue-blood shrink back into his chair. "Because you don't know if I have even more information on your past. Those fucking public schools really were filled with the kinds of people who would fuck a corpse. Did ye know that another boy at your school that ye sent a letter to only last month was one of the biggest pimps in Russia?”

“Malcolm. I can _hardly_ be held responsible for someone I met once, thirty years ago. _Do_ be serious.”

“I am being serious, does this look like a fucking comedy face? If you are ever, _ever_ , tempted tae overrule me again, if you get even the hint, the fucking _whiff_ , of an idea that you can ever get one over on me in front of the PM, then I got two more people I can call, both nastier than me, an' that's fucking saying something.”

Malcolm had done it. Faced with allegations that he was best friends with an arms-dealer, even Julius would back down. He'd have to drop the new policy idea until the press storm had quieted down, by which point Malcolm would have worked out another means of revenge.

Julius rose from the chair in a burst of speed, and his finger was pointing squarely in Malcolm's face. "I'll have you know, Malcolm, that I will _not_ stand for this, and neither will--"

"You say what I think you're going to say," Malcolm snarled, slapping Julius' hand away, "and I will tear the words out your fucking throat, wipe my arse with them, and shove it all back down there."

With distressing ease, Malcolm pushed the Government's blue-sky thinker back into the chair and stood over him. " _I_ am king of the fucking roost here, Nicholson. Nothing gets out to the fucking press without it going past _me_ first. You submit to me, right here and now, and admit I'm yer Alpha, and maybe I _won't_ tear yer baldy scalp off with a little fucking plastic spork and have it made into a little fucking wallet."

There was no question of what Malcolm meant. With a sweeping, graceful motion, Julius Nicholson rose from the chair and knelt before Malcolm Tucker, his head held down in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the flush of humiliation. The scion of one of the eldest Winged families in England, forced to submit to this Scottish upstart who was barely one step above the Wingless rabble he came from! The mere idea was against the natural order of things, went against every tradition he and his Flock had stood for! But, he realized, cheeks burning, he really had none but himself to blame.

Malcolm smirked. "Now that's yer proper fucking place, isn't it, ye great bellend?" With a long hand he indicated the enormous erection straining at his trousers. "Now while you're down there, ye might as well..."

Malcolm always did derive pleasure from dominating others. And it came easily to him -- commoner though he was, no one could deny Malcolm's sheer strength. Dear God, he was more powerful than most Winged from older and far nobler families.

And so Julius unfastened Malcolm's trouser fly, dipped his head, and gingerly ran his tongue over the vein that pulsed along Malcolm's erection before taking it into his mouth, his tongue sliding over the tip to catch the clear pre-come. Malcolm made an inarticulate growl of pleasure, grabbing the back of Julius' head and roughly shoving it towards him. He would have pulled at his hair, if the backstabbing baldy cunt had had any.

Malcolm shuddered as Julius swirled his tongue around the head, and his voice was low and rough. "I always pegged you fer a fucking cocksucker, Nicholson."

Julius responded by scraping his teeth down Malcolm's cock and sliding his mouth back up to suck harder. Malcolm's grip on him tightened, hands like a hawk's talons on his bare scalp, nails digging into his skin.

"Fucking hell," Malcolm gasped, "ye suck cock like a hungry pub whore with an eviction notice."  Knowing he was so close now that another lick would tip him over the edge, he grabbed Julius by the collar with a thin, strong hand and held him in place. For the little stunt he'd pulled, the poncy English priss was going to fucking swallow.

From his place kneeling at the floor, Julius felt the gust of wind, heard the tearing of fabric, saw the shadow. That was the only warning he got before Malcolm came, violently emptying his load at the same time his grey wings emerged, ripping his shirt and suit jacket apart as they spread in threat display. Julius said nothing at Malcolm's show of dominance, as his mouth was currently otherwise occupied.

Malcolm withdrew from Julius' mouth and buttoned his trousers, dismissing the other man with a wave of his hand.

"For fuck's sake, close your mouth. You look like a fucking fish on land." With the effortless grace of a geisha snapping closed a rice paper fan, Malcolm folded his wings to his back as he went to the cupboard for a spare shirt and jacket, as he knew Julius had returned from the cleaners earlier that day. "Besides, we both know you've fucking seen them before."

Julius scoffed. He'd risen from the floor and sat in one of the chairs. "As if anyone there could forget that _egregious impropriety_ you committed on the Cassidy estate lawn."

Malcolm simply rolled his eyes as he retracted his wings and threw a "borrowed" shirt and suit jacket on. "Jesus Christ, are ye never going to let that go? Thought those fancy fucking schools were supposed to teach ye good sportsmanship."

Julius watched the communications director leave, a tremor of jealousy stopping him cold. Tucker's wings were gorgeous, shimmering and full-plumed, sharp and dramatic, the feathers precisely shaped daggers of almost silvery dove grey. He really should be more mature than to envy the size of another man's wings, but he could not look at Number 10's enforcer without longing to be healthy.

No, he sighed, fate had not smiled upon the Nicholsons of Arnage in recent years.

But, the world of politics being what it was, there would be other opportunities.

***

Jamie belched and waved his glass in the air, shouting “more grog lass!” before he barely managed to duck the slap Malcolm levelled at him. “She's no' a maid ye inbred fuck, the fucking Scotch is in front of us – pour ye own cunting drink!”

“Oh aye, cuntface,” Jamie picked up a bottle of Talisker and focused his eyes enough to get the liquid mostly into his glass. Malcolm swiped it out of his hands and poured another couple of generous measures for him and Sam.

The three of them were sprawled across Malcolm's living room furniture celebrating their victory over the political morass that had gone that week. Jamie was slumped on the floor in front of the sofa, Malcolm had kicked his shoes off and stretched his long body out, and Sam was curled up against the cushions -- all of them gloriously, happily drunk.

The level of liquor in the bottle went down much further before Jamie spoke again. “So, Sam, what's he like? Manages tae get it up fer ye, eh?" She laughed as Malcolm scowled and replied that yes, thank you, she was satisfied. “Jus' checking. Ye know if one Scotsman was'nae enough, I was thinking...”

“Jamie.” The warning tone from Malcolm should have cut through any level of drunkeness.

“Oh don't ruffle ye fucking feathers ye auld grey cunt.” Jamie reached up to pat Sam's leg. “I wasn't talking about actually havin' sex with this lovely lass.”

“Good.”

“But,” Jamie drew lazy circles down Sam's ankle and she found herself relaxing into his touch. “I could join in. Give ye a hand makin' her scream. Come on Malc, how many fuckin' times have we shagged?”

“ _Too_ fucking many, MacDonald,” Malcolm snapped. He was about to level a swift kick to the back of Jamie's head when a moan from Sam distracted him.

Jamie had her foot in his hand and was pressing his fingers into her instep, running them up and along the arch with firm pressure. Sam looked over at Malcolm through lust-filled eyes and a wave of her honeyed scent washed over him. Ahh fuck it.

“No tryin' tae breed with her,” Malcolm told Jamie, noting the firm nod of his head in response. Jamie would step over most lines, but in this, he trusted him to stay on the right side. Besides -- Jamie may have the temper of a cross between a berserker and a football hooligan, and a right glutton for punishment besides, but he was nae suicidal.

Sam spoke from the sofa. “Any chance of--”

“Ah yes, nearly forgot pet." With fumbling fingers, Malcolm unbuttoned his shirt. "Wings out Jamie lad, our wee lass here loves havin' feathers tae lie on.”

Shirts removed, the two men flexed their shoulders and their wings expanded out behind them in a flurry of grey and black feathers. Jamie smirked and deliberately stretched his out to full span – feathers touching either wall – just to show that his were larger than Malcolm's. Sam sat and stared in awe for a second; she'd seen Malcolm's wings often, but never Jamie's wings of red-speckled black that looked like a bonfire in the night sky, now spread magnificently in front of her.

She rose to her feet and stroked her hand hesitantly down Jamie's wing, feeling the feathers spring back against her touch. His were rougher than Malcolm's – velvet compared to his silk – but just as warm and sensitive to the touch. She walked round to his back and touched the soft downy feathers there, stroking up and down his spine just as Malcolm liked. When Jamie moaned softly she smiled and stroked out toward his shoulder blades.

Suddenly her view was enclosed in a sweep of dove grey; Malcolm had come up behind her and swept his own wings around her. “Tone it down, pet, or he'll fucking come on the floor,” he drawled, laughing when Jamie's wings rustled in anger.

“Me? I'm no' the one so fuckin' old he needs Viagra just tae get it up enough tae have a piss.”

There was no further fighting from the two men. Sam undid her shirt and let it fall to the floor. She leaned back against Malcolm's bare chest, still twirling her fingers through Jamie's feathers. She had the undivided attention of two powerful Winged, and it felt glorious.

Malcolm slipped his hands up and around Sam's front to cup her breasts in his large hands, stroking his thumbs back and forth over stiffening nipples. Her scent was increasing as it always did when they were about to mate, but this time it was affecting more than him. Jamie turned around in a sudden blur of black and had his lips pressed up against Sam's in a blink of an eye. They kissed fiercely and hard – Jamie's trademark style – and Malcolm felt himself grow even harder at the sight.

_Oh fuck this better not be a dream, God ye total bastard,_ thought Jamie. He could feel Sam's moans against his lips and heard Malcolm's distinctive aroused growl coming from behind her. Jesus fuck, this was turnin' him the _fuck_ on – sure, the Winged were not nearly as puritanical as Wingless, but how many other Winged got tae have sex with their Alpha and his Mate at the same time?

He didn't really know the answer to that question, and when Malcolm stripped Sam's bra off and told Jamie to cup her breasts and stroke her while he took care of "lower concerns," he didn't much care either. The wee lass had fantastic tits, heavy and smooth-skinned, and she actually fucking _whimpered_ when he squeezed them together and lapped his tongue over the erect peaks. Sam's hands twisted through his hair and pulled him in tighter, wordlessly demanding more, which Jamie was only too happy to oblige. Nibbling his teeth against her flushed and taut nipples made her moan even louder, the scent of her heat increasing, and he bit harder.

Her reaction was electric. “Oh god please!” she howled into the air, her head thrown back against Malcolm's shoulder. “Take me!”

“Shhhh,” came Malcolm's voice from behind her. “We've got all night tae do fuckin' wicked things tae you, even though...” He slid a hand between her legs, spreading them slightly. “...even though you're already fuckin' wetter than a monsoon.” Sam could do nothing but writhe in between the two men – one stroking and biting her breasts, the other holding her up and sliding his long fingers into her – and submit to their touch.

Sam had no idea how they got up the stairs and ended up in Malcolm's bedroom, clothes scattered everywhere and three bodies writhing naked on the bedcovers. Soft but expert kisses were planted on her face by Malcolm and just as she was relaxing into his touch, her face would be wrenched away and Jamie would kiss her roughly, almost painfully, and grind up against her.

She could feel Malcolm hot and hard against her stomach, and she moaned happily. It did not matter how often they did this. Each time was as exciting as the last.

Meanwhile, Jamie was distracted by something else on the bed.

"Takin' good care of my feathers?" He patted the huge pillows, all stuffed with black down.

Malcolm smirked. "The very fuckin' best."

“An’ what about you pet?” Jamie scraped his teeth against Sam’s neck. “Ye like being screwed on my feathers, eh? Lyin’ back on them with ye legs wide open and--” He didn’t get the rest of the sentence out before Malcolm wrenched his head up by his hair and bit his lip. “Learn ye fucking place, or I’ll have a new set of fuckin’ pillows by the end of tonight, yes?” Taking Jamie’s silence as consent, he rewarded the younger man with a bruising kiss before turning his attentions back to Sam.

“Lie back, lad. This wench likes lying on ye feathers so much, so let's give her the real thing, yeah?” Jamie scooted up the covers, his wings fluttering down onto the smooth linen, covering the entire bed in black and red, looking for all the world like some ancient pagan god of lust -- erect, naked and powerful, displaying all his finest plumage.

Malcolm laid Sam down gently onto one of the black wings covering the bed and kneeled above her, his great silken grey wings spread for his Mate. “Jamie, everythin’ above her waist is yours tae play with. I want tae hear this lass scream, understand?”

“Easy as fuck, Malc.” Jamie was already stroking a hand down Sam’s chest. “Do I get tae fucking come as well?”

“If ye do well, I’ll even let ye come down her throat. How about that?”

Malcolm had just enough time to see Jamie shift to his side and lower his mouth onto Sam's smooth neck before she wrapped her legs around his thin waist and pulled him down. He didn't need any more encouragement, and he pushed his hips forward to enter her in one smooth movement. Sam cried out as she so often did when they mated, but even louder. Malcolm was pounding into her fast and rough, his cock rubbing against all the right places, and Jamie was biting and suckling on any part of her he could reach. Two men worshipping her like some great fertility goddess of the Winged, wings fluttering everywhere she could see – Malcolm's dove grey spread out in a possessive display in front of her and Jamie's flame-tipped black at either side of her.

Malcolm dug his fingernails into her hips and moaned. Oh god, he really wasn't going to last long, a feeling made even worse when Jamie yanked Sam's head around for another scorching kiss.

“Jamie.” Malcolm was panting with the effort of staving off his imminent climax. “Her neck. Bite it.”

“Malc?”

“Do it, ye Motherwell mingetunnel. I'm fucking coming.”

Jamie sank his teeth into Sam's neck at the exact moment that Malcolm gave a single hard thrust and came. Her reaction was explosive and nearly threw both men off the bed, arching her body so hard that only her head and heels were touching the covers as her hands clawed blindly into Malcolm's shoulders. Her muscles were still contracting around him when Malcolm felt himself harden up again.

“Fuck, Malc.” Jamie breathed. “What the fuck was that? A fucking nuke go off in here?”

Malcolm was already starting to thrust again, pounding toward his next climax, so Sam answered breathlessly. “Mates can go more than once in Heat season, coming again and again and -- fuckJamiepleasejustbiteme --” Her last words drifted off into a long impassioned, incoherent moan, and Jamie deliberately broke the rules by reaching down and circling her clit with his fingers. Joined Mate or no, Malcolm wasn't going to be the only one who could make her come.

Jamie was so caught up in Malcolm's moans and frenetic pounding that he didn't notice at first the gentle hand on his cock. Sam had reached down and around and grasped him, her hand slick with sweat and arousal.

The three of them fell into pace: Malcolm's hard, driving thrusts into Sam, her strokes on Jamie's cock, Malcolm's mouth on Jamie's neck, and Jamie's mouth on Sam's hard nipples. The bed creaked and shifted as Sam tried not to hit her head on the headboard, and soon Jamie's own moans were joining those of the other two.

Wings and other sweaty limbs tangled on the bed in a cacophony of lustful moans, Scots-accented swearing, and grunts of exertion. Sam's hand on Jamie squeezed harder, tighter, her thumb rubbing against the firm head of his cock just as Malcolm liked. It had the same effect on Jamie – he growled and panted like a wolf, thrusting into her grip, every touch bringing him closer.

“Come on me, go on,” she'd murmured, and Jamie did exactly that, coating her chest and waist in thick waves of his ejaculate as he cried out her name. Sam felt herself tense up inside at the sight of Jamie coming right next to her, but it wasn't until Malcolm leaned down and thrust his tongue into Jamie's mouth that she orgasmed again, head thrown back against a pillow as her heart raced and her lungs gasped for air, as her back arched and her toes curled.

The sight of his two partners both coming under him was more than Malcolm could take. With a brutally rough and painful series of thrusts, he came for the second time. He bared his teeth, grey eyes glazed over and grey wings beating against the bed, all Alpha top-of-the-fucking-food-chain predator in that moment, no trace of civilization, charm, or even mercy left in him: savage and feral and utterly exhilarating.

***

Feathers were all over the bed, small downy fluffs of grey and black lying all around them. Sam had clawed at Malcolm and then Jamie at the height of her passion, her body on fire, screaming into the air as her body trembled and warmth gushed down her thighs, all semblance of self control destroyed utterly.

Both men were curled up next to her, one on either side, contentedly snoozing. Surprisingly, they hadn't put their wings away before sleeping, and they were resting either on the soaking wet sheets or on top of Sam, warm from their exertions. For her part, Sam was aching, sore, wet, and thoroughly, blissfully satisfied. She stroked the two wings covering her body and then snuggled down, pulling them over enough to keep her warm, before surrendering to the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion.

***

Malcolm told her in the morning, over coffee and a traditional English breakfast of something fried, that he'd tried to boot Jamie onto the floor, only she'd complained about losing her "fluffy snuggly blankie." (He would proceed to use that nickname for Jamie for several weeks afterwards, much to Jamie's chagrin.)

"Fuck," he muttered, stretching out and massaging a grey wing with his hands after trying, and being unable to, retract it.

"Malcolm, what's wrong?"

"Fucking wing's asleep!"

 


End file.
